


sweet bird, sad songs

by tempestshakes



Series: sweet birds, sad songs [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Poetry, shrugs, shrugs some more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:24:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestshakes/pseuds/tempestshakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"you<br/>begin to understand who you are and like a caged<br/>bird they let you fold out a melody,<br/>fold the laundry,<br/>fold, but not fly."</p><p> </p><p>a eulogy for beth greene i wrote a long while ago</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet bird, sad songs

**Author's Note:**

> \+ i think i wrote this for the fanbook but didn't send it in time? i don't know; those weeks after the start of the ferguson protests are still a blur. also, it's more poetry! yay!

i.  
when you were born, your daddy said  
your lungs were full  
of morning song.  
he held you in warm hands,  
lifting you toward the sunlight,  
and it was almost as if he knew  
you were made like a solar star—  
a guiding light to those who wander,  
sad, sadder, and lost.

 

ii.  
they break open the old barn and it’s like  
the world ends all over again.

your mama. your brother. that little girl  
those people were desperate for. it ain’t  
fair or pretty or good. so what’s the point.

—when you slice open your wrist with mirror glass,  
a rosy ribbon of blood sweetened with fear  
slipping to the sink, you find  
the whetting need to live, to _live_ —

 

iii.  
a sweet baby is placed in your thin arms, and no one  
notices they are asking a girl to be mother, but  
the word _woman_ feels right in your heart. you  
begin to understand who you are and like a caged  
bird they let you fold out a melody,  
fold the laundry,  
fold, but not fly.

 

iv.  
in the woods,  
the earth falls quiet as you grow tiny thorns.  
sweat drips down the column of your back,  
the promise of moonshine lit aflame  
tugging you on by the yearn and yarn.  
you ache for the family, both alive and gone, balancing  
on the edge of hope and pragmatism, understanding  
of your own worth.

you watch feral angel wings, watch the way  
he tracks, watch the way he turns to you,  
eyes clear, rough hands,  
and his silence  
a litany.

 

v.  
_don’t give me lies and tell me they’re roses,_  
you murmur, gaze piercing like a knife blade,  
mouth a knotted bow,  
_I don’t even f—ing like roses._

you are strong. you are so strong.  
you are—gone.

 

 

 

vi.

you see a light, and your ribs fall from your body  
like the petals of a Forget-me-not,  
and your sweet wisp of a soul floats into  
the velvet inhale of galaxy.

 _O, Beth_ , whispers the universe and your soul sp—sparks.

 

 

 

 

 

vii.

…

 


End file.
